The Company of Wolves
by sugarkid
Summary: This is a retelling of the short story of the same name by Angela Carter with some embellishments from the movie. Rated for gore. (Frankenwolf)


"One beast and only one howls in the woods by night."

Victor's Nanny told him that once as she warmed herself by the fireplace. He had been young and wide-eyed at the time, fearful of her stories, yet quick to demand the bloodiest and most violent in her collection. As a grown adult, he scoffed at the thought of demons that picked virgins from their beds, marking them as idiocy and superstition. Still, he had to admit that as he leaned over his latest 'patient', the sound of the wolves outside was oddly eerie.

Since his father had ceased funding his work, he had only been able to afford a wooden cabin for his research, which had made matters rather complicated. The nearest cemetery was quite some distance away, a journey made only more difficult by the added weight of whatever bodies they took with them. It was dangerous work and the bodies they returned with were often battered and bruised or so badly preserved that they smelled most foul. Ice was something of a luxury in the forest and, while the night air was cool enough justify leaving the bodies outside, Victor knew that it would only be a matter of time before the wolves caught the scent and tore apart their precious materials, possibly even braving the cabin itself and coming for _them_.

Victor placed stitches by the light of a single candle, sometimes reworking them when sunlight shone through the windows. Igor would read passages from his favourite medical texts by the same half-light, sometimes muddling his words because of the darkness. For two men used to working in better conditions, with more expensive equipment, it was something of a shock.

And then there was the hunger…

A good part of it was a literal need for nourishment, since the pair worked from dusk until dawn without pause, though there was also a darker edge to it that Victor knew would never be satiated by food. He wanted to go home with proof of his success and watch as his Father begged for forgiveness. He had been so close before and had a taste of triumph and the longer he spent in that wretched cabin the more it occurred to him that nothing else would do.

"I think we're ready to close up," he said to Igor, motioning for the other man to pass him the necessary materials.

He was not entirely sure what had killed the young man they had carried out of the cemetery, only that there was not very much of him left. It looked a great deal like a wolf attack, with one arm and half of the poor boy's face being ripped off before the fatal bite to the throat, though something about it had spooked the villagers. Off hand, Victor would have guessed that it was the violent nature of the attack, but he knew that that was probably a miscalculation on his part. The village folk there were not soft and prone to shocks like the people from back home; they were as hardy and strong as the livestock they bred. There was also the fact that before burying the boy they had detached his head from his body.

Victor had seen that sort of behaviour before and it was part of the reason that he did not wander into the village unless he absolutely had to. His Nanny was from a village just like that one and their old-fashioned superstition, the by-product of surviving one too many hard winters, bordered on dangerous to outsiders. When something happened that they were unable to explain they were more likely to blame it on some supernatural force. Stories from the past that had probably been quite normal at the time were embellished until the truth was lost among years of huddling together around warm fires and retelling the story to a newer generation.

His Nanny often said that two sorts of wolf existed and it was important to distinguish between the two. Wolves that were hairy on the outside were simple creatures, the cousins of dogs. Wolves that were hairy on the inside, however, were incredibly dangerous for they could change their shape and walk among men. Those wolves married and had children as humans, only to rip them apart when their true pack came calling. They were beasts, shape changers and almost impossible to spot until it was far too late. His Nanny had talked at length of entire villages meeting their doom because of a single wolf attack, the sort of thing that brought mass hysteria and utter conviction in one another's guilt.

As much as he knew that shapechangers and people with hair in their bellies did not exist, the same could not be said of the villagers and the fact that he was a stranger was enough to warrant suspicion. He only travelled into the village when he had a letter to post and that was something of a rarity.

Gerhardt wrote to him every day; long essays about the day to day exploits of the household and battlefield and pleas for Victor to come home. _Father will forgive you_, the last one had ended, _I promise you. Just come home so we can sort out this mess_. Victor had laughed as he held that one over the candle, watching as his brother's words exploded into flame. It seemed so obvious to him that he could not return home; not while progress seemed like a mountain's climb away and the wolves howled outside.

He doubted he would have replied at all if he had not suspected Gerhardt would read his letters over breakfast to Father. It was too appealing to pass up and he made sure that when he remembered to respond he detailed how well he was doing and how his research was developing most admirably. He flat out lied in some of his letters, claiming that rich folk had come to visit him and offered to sponsor him, such was the magnitude of his discovery, but he had declined each time.

When he finished sewing up the poor village boy, he let Igor drape a blanket over the body and tidy up the place while he put on a clean shirt and washed blood from his hands. He had just finished a new letter for Gerhardt and meant to post it right away.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Sir?" asked Igor, glancing out of the window as he tidied away the books. "Snow has been falling for three days now and it is quite dangerous underfoot."

Victor had been in the cabin for so long, focussing so intently on stitching and where to place each cut, that he had lost all perspective on the weather outside and even how much time had passed since he left Geneva. Victor had found the cabin in winter, yes, he remembered that the front door had been almost entirely hidden by snow. He also remembered the way that winter had turned to summer. He remembered kicking autumnal leaves out of his path as he and Igor dragged bodies out of the cemetery and the way he had found a particularly ant-ridden one on his pillow once. If snow was falling outside as Igor said then that meant that he had been away from home for almost a year.

"I shall be fine," he said, pulling on a warm woollen jacket and slipping a blade into the pocket. "I know the path well."

Igor did not argue the point further and Victor pulled on his hat, stepping out of the cabin and allowing himself to be swallowed up by the forest. The snow was thick and crunched underfoot and, though he would never admit it to anybody else, it reminded him of his childhood winters at home. He might have been tucking into a warm plum pudding or some sort of roasted bird if he had not left, telling his Father and brother some terrible joke or listening to Gerhardt's war stories.

There was plenty to see on the way, from the footprints made by passing animals to the way the snow had covered individual tree branches. When Victor heard the cry of a wolf overhead, he slipped his hand back into his pocket and tightened his grip around the handle of his knife, taking a deep breath and quickening his pace. He was not alone in the woods, that much was obvious. He did not wish to guess how many birds, foxes and rabbits were in the immediate area, but that was not what caught his attentions. He could hear his own footsteps in the snow, along with somebody else's, someone who was getting closer.

He stopped dead in his tracks and lifted the blade out in front of him, just as the girl stepped out of the trees.

She was younger than him, though not by much and very attractive to look at; not at all stony faced or filthy like the villagers. She had a basket over one arm and a bright red cloak wrapped around her person and Victor felt certain that he had not seen her before.

"Oh!" she said when she saw him. "You frightened me!"

Only then did Victor notice that she had a crossbow and was pointing it directly at him.

The girl's name, he learned, was Liza but she much preferred to be called Red. She lived in the woods with her Grandmother, sometimes visiting the village for supplies. Victor offered to carry the basket for her and admired the range of pies, breads and wine inside it.

"The villagers do not take these paths," she said, glancing up at the skyline above them. "They're afraid the wolves will come for them."

"And you are not afraid?"

The little red hooded girl smiled knowingly.

"These woods are my home," she said. "Are you afraid of your home?"

Victor supposed she meant the cabin, though he could not help but think of Geneva.

"Of course not," he lied and he was sure that she knew, for she looked at him quite sadly.

"The villagers say that you should never leave the path when you come here," she said. "They speak as if the second you do some terrible beast will come out and eat you."

"You are not frightened of getting lost?"

"Of course not," sighed Red. "I know these pathways better than I know you. By rights I should be more frightened of you."

Victor laughed and the little red girl smiled fiendishly.

"I guarantee that if I wandered off into the trees and took a side path, I could arrive at your little cabin at least half an hour before you," she said.

"Is that so?" said Victor. "I'm not entirely sure that I believe you."

Red slung the crossbow over her shoulder, the pointed edge of the arrow disturbing a tree branch behind her and causing all of the snow resting upon it to fall to the floor.

"Shall we make a game of it?" she asked. "You take the winding path to your cabin and if I am not there when you arrive, you can keep everything in that basket. If I _am _there, then you must give me something that _I_ want."

Ordinarily, Victor would not have entertained the notion, but the thought of the wine and pastries in the basket made his mouth water and his stomach growl mournfully.

"And what am I to give to you if you are there before me?" he asked, a question that she seemed to find incredibly amusing.

"Why, a kiss of course," was her answer.

Victor flushed a dark red and watched as she retreated into the undergrowth.

* * *

Igor watched through the windows as night fell and cast dark shadows on the cabin. He hoped his Master returned soon, for he did not much like the thought of having to brave the snow in search of him.

He was almost ready to drag on his own coat, against his better judgement, when three taps sounded on the door.

"Who is it?" he called out, knowing that his Master would not bother to knock.

"Please let me in," a woman called out from the other side. "I am waiting for the one you called Victor."

Igor was baffled and picked up one of the scalpels from the medical tray as he advanced towards the door. When he saw the young woman standing on the other side with snowflakes in her hair, he immediately slipped it back and motioned for her to come inside.

"My Master did not say that he was expecting guests," he said as the girl took the red cloak from around her shoulders. "Might I get you a drink of something?"

In truth, he was quite surprised she hadn't turned up her nose at the smell coming from the putrid fellow in the next room. He and Victor had been using cheap whiskey to disinfect the equipment and, when the strange girl accepted a drink, he had to hold his breath to go in there and pour her a cup.

He glanced out of the window as he found the bottle and noticed that the snow had stopped for the moment, leaving the sky all but clear. For the first time that evening he was able to see the ghostly glow of the full moon and he paused to admire the way it shone on the snow. The windows of the cabin were caked up with grime that had been there when they arrived. Victor had joked that it was probably older than they were too, though it was the sort of black humour that his Master pulled off so well. During the course of their research, Igor had cleaned a small spot in each window, so that he could see through the glass without spending days at a time wiping the whole thing. If he had done so, he might have been able to see the reflection of the young woman in the next room. He would have seen her jump to her feet the second the snow stopped and the moonlight became apparent, a look of utmost horror dominating her pretty features. Perhaps he would have asked whatever the matter was as she scrambled towards her bright red cloak, only to double up in pain on the floor.

He thought he heard a whimper in the next room, but he was rather used to hearing those sorts of things out in the forest. Seldom did a night go by where a fox did not slaughter something or get into a fight with a bigger creature. He thought he heard the snap of bones changing form, of claws snaking along the wooden floorboards of the cabin, but he thought nothing of it until the wolves began to howl outside.

"They sound fearful tonight," he said, turning to where he had left the girl. Except, there was no girl there any longer, only a dark-haired beast with murder in its eyes.

The last things Igor ever saw were the she-wolf's monstrous teeth.

* * *

If Victor was completely honest, he dallied somewhat returning to the cabin. He could not stop thinking about the girl in the red hood and how much she wanted a kiss. No girl had ever wanted to kiss him before, usually talking to him at dances in the hopes that he might introduce them to Gerhardt. Despite the hunger in his gut, he was somewhat disappointed when he arrived at the cabin to find she wasn't there. He debated hiding in the trees and waiting for her to arrive, but decided against it and instead pushed open the door.

And so he walked in, a flurry of freshly fallen snow entering behind him and landing on the blood-soaked floorboards.

"Igor!" he began to say. "You shall never guess what happened to me to-"

Then he noticed the naked girl sobbing in the middle of the floor, a human heart in her hands. He knew the heart could not belong to the cadaver; it was far too fresh and still swimming in blood, blood that ran along her arms and was smeared across her lips and chin.

"My God," said Victor, dropping the basket and dragging the knife from his pocket. "What have you done?"

"I…" she wept. "I…failed…I…"

Victor stormed through to the experimentation room where they had kept the body, keeping his blade fixed towards the girl at all times, only to find that the room was empty. There was no sign of Igor or the body he had closed up only a matter of hours before.

"Where is my assistant?!" he demanded of the little red girl, who howled with sobs at the anger in his voice.

"I-I'm sorry," she said. "He's not here. It is just you and I here now."

Outside of the cabin, a wolf cried to the moon and the girl dropped the heart in her hands. Victor lifted the knife in front of him, tightening his grip on the blade and scrutinising her every move. He looked on in horror as she climbed up onto all fours and cried back to the wolf outside, all while her fingernails turned to sharp claws and her bones broke one at a time. She arched her back and wailed as her spine rippled and changed shape, her shoulders dislocating and reforming. Victor outright gasped as her beautiful face became elongated, covered in a hair as dark and coarse as that between her thighs.

The she-wolf backed up against the wall and let out a mournful whine that chilled him to the bone. He had taught himself never to believe his old Nanny's stories, yet he had watched the creature before him change shape. He fell to his knees and the she-wolf yelped, backing into the cabin wall as if expecting him to cut it to pieces.

For a long time he stared at the creature and it stared back, trembling and whining. Its eyes were still hers.

"I," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I never knew a wolf could cry."

Slowly, very slowly, the wolf inched closer. It was bigger than an ordinary wolf, bigger than a lion and Victor knew that if it wanted it could bite off his head in one fell swoop. He closed his eyes when he felt the creature's hot breath on his face, breath that smelled so strongly of blood. He had no doubts that it was the beast that had killed Igor, but somehow he was not nearly as frightened as he should have been.

He knew he was nobody's meat.

The she-wolf nuzzled his face before resting her trembling head on his lap. He lifted a hand to stroke her beautiful fur and watched as she whined and squeezed her own eyes shut, perhaps expecting him to take up the dagger and slice her throat. When he stroked her most gently, she licked his hands with her rough tongue.

The wolves outside were crying to the moon and she lifted her head to listen to them. Victor knew without being told that they were her brothers. She cocked her head to the side to listen to their haunting melody, their folk songs and more. She turned her beautiful head back to him and caught his eye.

The beast's eyes. They were still hers.

* * *

The carriage ride from Geneva had not been comfortable. Gerhardt had found himself gripping the seats for most of the way, leaning out of the window and asking the driver how far they had to go. He breathed a sigh of relief when the carriage finally stopped and he was able to stretch his legs.

Geneva was not the same without his brother. He had arrived home from the front for Christmas, expecting to find both his father and Victor sipping brandy under the tree as before, only to leave home right away when he found only his father there. Gerhardt had always been envious of his brother's tales of scientific discovery, for as a man who did not possess the necessary intelligence to snatch a human being from the brink of death, he was mystified that such things should exist. Ever since Victor had left he had argued with his Father almost every day, trying to convince him that there were more important things than fighting wars and winning medals. When Gerhardt killed a man on the battlefield he felt like little more than a glorified murderer, with a medal for every head he had collected. There were different sorts of heroes in the world than just the ones who wielded swords and protected borders, but their Father did not see things with such clarity.

"You are sure this is the place?" he shouted to the driver as he stared out at the wooden cabin before him. It was quite isolated, but crude and Gerhardt could not imagine his brother settling for less than satisfactory conditions to carry on his work. What's more, the place appeared to be abandoned, with its door hanging open on its hinges and not a single light inside.

The driver climbed down and took the lantern from his carriage.

"This is the address you gave to me," he said.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled and the driver drew his pistol.

"We should not stay here for much longer," he said. "These parts are dangerous."

"I have to find my brother," protested Gerhardt. "I have to put things right."

As if in response, a single dark shape streaked out of the cabin and the carriage horses screamed in fright. The she-wolf paid them no heed, instead heading off into the trees. Gerhardt ran towards the door of the cabin.

"No," he said. "No, VICTOR-"

And then the second wolf came; smaller than the first and pale as the winter snow. Gerhardt cried out and jumped back and the creature stood and stared at him as if frozen to the spot. The driver cursed and drew his gun, aiming for the wolf's skull.

Gerhardt did not exactly what made him grab the man's arm and redirect the shot, only that as the gun fired, the pale wolf ran off into the trees after the black one. The driver wrestled out of Gerhardt's grip, less than impressed at the sudden turn in events.

"What the hell did you do that for, Lordling?" he snapped. "You could have killed us both."

"I know it is strange," said Gerhardt. "But for a moment I was almost certain that I was looking at my brother again."

He stared out across at the snowy landscape and listened to the haunting chorus of the wolves singing to the full moon and accepting their new brother.

One beast and only one howled in the woods by night. Gerhardt knew the words well, for he had always believed his Nanny's stories. Victor had grown up and scoffed, but he never had and he was not afraid. He knew that on the morrow, his blood brother would wake with _her_.


End file.
